Rumours Only Grow
by ColdInMyProfessions
Summary: He wishes that they did not have to hide, that every moment with each other was not secret and stolen. Alexander often feels as though he and John are living on borrowed time and now, it seems, that time has run out.
1. Chapter 1

Alexander is hunched low over his desk by the light of a single candle, burnt almost to its completion. The offices around him are presumably empty and no light from any others' candle flickers under his door. He thinks he is truly alone.

This, as usual, does little to bother him. He is normally the very last to retire in the evenings and has grown used to it in the year he has worked on the President's cabinet.

The latest draft of his financial plan sits near completion in front of him. It is gruelling work. Eliza has commented endlessly on his obvious exhaustion and state of ill health as of late but as he loves her, he forgives her of the fuss. She is not known to play the termagant, her recent behaviour must be a testament to his own, bordering on self-destructive, actions.

He glances momentarily at the Swiss-made grandfather clock and starts; it his ten minutes to eleven at night. With a glance behind him at the window, he notices the lights of the city have dimmed somewhat and the sound of hooves on cobblestones is sporadic; fewer people are out at this late hour.

He collects his things into neat piles and places the most sensitive of documents in the drawer of his desk, locking it and pocketing the key with particular care.

He is also careful to tighten the lids on his inkwell and smear his quill's nib onto some blotting paper before preparing to leave. The war taught him to make use of the little resources he is allowed and though he writes more than the majority of his colleges, his paper and ink expenses are generally low.

There are footsteps in the corridor outside, a group of them. Listening hard, with a foreboding curiosity filling him, he estimates that at least three people are moving in the corridor outside.

He cautiously pulls on his topcoat and tightens his cravat slightly. If he is to run into people, he must ensure a degree of propriety is maintained. He has a reputation to uphold.

The footsteps are near now and all at once, they stop, directly outside his door. He can hear low murmurings but cannot make out words.

He momentarily contemplates calling out to these people but stops himself. He will wait until they knock. Their approach to him has been rude and suspicious thus far, why should he humour them?

There is a firm knocking on his door and he sighs. He had hoped these people would simply pass him by, an encounter with his colleges at this late hour is the last thing he would wish for. Eliza will most likely be in bed already and he has long since missed his childrens' bedtimes.

"Enter."

He makes sure a certain degree of frustration is evident his tone when he replies but keeps his face civil and polite when the door is pushed open. He had thought it might be Randolph or Knox, he vaguely remembers one or the other mentioning they would work late, but it is not.

Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, and James Monroe stand in his doorway. The detestable, Democratic-Republican trio he has verbally sparred many more times than he would have desired.

"Secretary Jefferson, Speaker Madison, Senator Monroe. You do not find it rather late for a meeting?"

He does not bother with pleasantries. He intends to make this brief, lest he enter another verbal scuffle with Jefferson.

Jefferson's face is contorted in a smirk that Hamilton can only interpret as trouble. He is dressed in his usual, francophillian manner. The embroidered crimson top coat and bright ribbon on his queue are ridiculously expensive looking, the sort of clothing Hamilton knows is worn in Paris.

This is telling, not only because it exemplifies the air of diplomacy he exudes, but because it forces Hamilton to realize Jefferson has dressed this way on purpose. It is to intimidate him.

It doesn't work. Jefferson can wear his lavish clothes and boast of his debauchery in France. He was fighting a war, that is infinitely more valuable a claim.

"Secretary Hamilton, I was told you would remain here late. A fine evening, is it not?"

He says this casually, as though he is making small talk at a dinner table, Hamilton gets the distinct impression he is trying to draw this conversation out. Making it memorable, savouring it. But why?

He nearly rolls his eyes but Washington's stern voice echoes through his mind. All the chastisement he would no doubt receive for baiting Jefferson is not worth it. He forces on himself a pleasant smile.

"Indeed, Sirs. Yet, as you eruditely said, it is late. I was about to send for a carriage."

He straightens the lapels of his coat and pulls his queue out from under his collar, making to pick up his briefcase. Madison, however, holds out his hand to pause him.

"You hasten to leave, yet I think you will find the reason for our disturbance... enlightening."

It is hard to be intimidated of Madison, especially when he is stood next to Thomas Jefferson. All of five foot four with a sickly frame and a pale, doughy face. Yet, there is a look in his eyes that Hamilton does not like. It is difficult to believe in this moment that he and Madison were once friends.

He looks from Madison to Jefferson, to Monroe and pushes his glasses further up his nose. He will humour them, this once.

"Enlighten me, then."

Jefferson bends down slightly and from the floor picks up his polished briefcase Hamilton had not before noticed. He opens it surreptitiously, not allowing Hamilton to see the contents. Again, he fights the ever growing urge to roll his eyes. He has not time for Jefferson's histrionics.

Jefferson pulls out a small bundle of papers and sets them on the desk in front of Hamilton. They are payments, monthly ones from a single account to another, nearly two hundred dollars each time.

He reads the name at the top of the document and all at once, an icy sense of dread fills him. It is cold water, no, freezing water being poured down his back, chilling his spine and sending goosebumps to bloom on his arms. He is paralyzed. He knows these checks.

"Check stubs, from a Mr. James Reynolds' accounts. Nearly two hundred dollars in monthly payments for the last three years. That is a lot of money, is it not, Secretary Hamilton?"

He gathers himself and casts an incredulous eye over the three of them, raising an eyebrow and feigning ignorance.

"Why are you showing me these, and more importantly, how did you procure them?"

Jefferson laughs sharply, his icy grey eyes are alight with malice. It is enough to chill Hamilton to the very bone.

"These checks, though astonishing in the evidence of corruption they show, are not the entire reason we are here, Hamilton."

Hamilton sits back down in his chair, feeling at once that if this meeting (he should say ambush, really) is going the way he dreads, he will not be able to stand for its duration.

Monroe steps forward now, having been silent thus far. He continues for Jefferson, fixing Hamilton with a steely gaze.

"Nearly eight months ago, Secretary Jefferson and I were approached by a one, Mr. James Reynolds who claimed to have information on a member of Washington's cabinet that would be of great interest to us."

Jefferson is pulling at his cuffs, the silver clasps gleam in the candlelight. A smirk has crept its way onto his face.

"Upon scheduling a meeting with Mr. Reynolds in a small establishment in Philadelphia, we were shown a number of documents, all of which I have with me."

He gestures to the papers Hamilton is holding with trembling hands and laughs at the man's obvious anxiety, despite his best efforts to keep a straight face, his hands have betrayed him to Jefferson.

"The first of these aforementioned documents is the one before you, a record of a series of payments to Mr. Reynolds, in an attempt to cover up sensitive information and evidence he held against you."

Hamilton wishes the ground would open up and he would be swallowed whole, better than the living hell he is enduring now.

Madison continues for Jefferson, drawing himself up to his full, unimpressive height and stifling a cough with a lace-edged handkerchief.

"The other documents we were shown by Mr. Reynolds," he gestures to the papers Jefferson is now pulling from his briefcase, "were the correspondences between yourself and Representative John Laurens, from 1778 to 1782."

These words come like a punch in the gut to Hamilton and when the letters are placed in front of him, the sensation changes to more closely resemble a knife wound.

They are not the original copies, nor is it the full correspondence. He has those hidden in his study, treasured under lock and key to be taken out on sporadic, sentimental occasions. These have been copied out by someone, who evidently had access to them, somehow.

He knew Reynolds has these, yet has not been shown them before. He had paid Reynolds monthly for the past three years, he could not think why Reynolds would break their agreement.

He picks up the first and reads through the opening paragraph. This is one of his to John, circa 1779.

 _Cold in my professions, warm in my friendships, I wish, my Dear Laurens, it might be in my power, by action rather than words, to convince you that I love you._

 _I shall only tell you that 'till you bade us Adieu, I hardly knew the value you had taught my heart to set upon you. Indeed, my friend, it was not well done._

 _You know the opinion I entertain of mankind, and how much it is my desire to preserve myself free from particular attachments, and to keep my happiness independent on the caprice of others. You should not have taken advantage of my sensibility to steal into my affections without my consent._

 _But as you have done it and as we are generally indulgent to those we love, I shall not scruple to pardon the fraud you have committed, on condition that for my sake, if not for your own, you will always continue to merit the partiality, which you have so artfully instilled into me._

Hamilton winces upon finishing the paragraph. He regrets nothing of the words upon the paper before him for not a single one them are false, but he realises the evidence is damning. However, surely they are not wise to the extent of he and John's relationship- perhaps he can pass this off as mere wartime camaraderie.

Jefferson is watching him as he reads further down the paragraph, thinking and planning and calculating as he is so known for, as he is so detested for by many.

Alexander looks up, making sure his posture is as straight as he is able and his eyes as stoic and expressionless as he can make them.

"Mr. Jefferson, have you ever fought in a war?"

It is clear he catches the man off guard with this question so he seizes the opportunity, standing up and glaring at Jefferson with unrestrained contempt.

"I- I served as a diplomat in France during the revolution, Hamilton. Surely you know this. A vital part of the war effort was done by myself and other ambassadors."

Hamilton shakes his head and braces his hands on the table below him. If he is to make this convincing, he must appear confident and unperturbed.

"No, you have not fought a war, Jefferson. You have not suffered and starved and been shot at from every direction by British Redcoats. You know not of watching comrades, your kin, fall around you and therefore know nothing of wartime camaraderie. Laurens and I are as good as brothers, yet you enter my office and accuse me of such improprieties?"

He realises his voice is shaking and he ceases his furious tirade, watching Jefferson's expression morph from shock to horror and then maddeningly, gleeful again.

"That was a heartfelt speech, truly Hamilton, and I may be more inclined to believe you if it were not for the rest of the evidence I have to support my accusations. I would not approach you with these things if I were not certain about them. I am a thorough man."

Hamilton's eyes move back down to the letters and he scans through them again, picking one at random and beginning to read. It is one of their earlier ones, when they were still young and reckless, sure they would be shot to death on some dismal battlefield. They never considered the consequences their actions should have on them in the future, sure that there would be no future.

They were lucky, or at least Hamilton now views himself a such. When he enlisted, however, he was not so concerned about returning from the war.

It is from John when he had recently departed to South Carolina.

 _Dearest Alexander,_

 _It is with every hour that my heart grows increasingly weary of this distance, these wretched miles between us feel like oceans, like the vastness of the heavens above._

Hamilton cannot help a small, internal smile. John wrote as such a poet, romantic in the way that reminisced the European romance tales he surely would have read in his school days in Geneva. He has matured now, though his letters always retain that same, Shakespearean tone.

 _South Carolina is unbearably warm, you may think it would be a welcome relief from Valley Forge, yet I fear I have grown accustomed to the north's frigid temperatures these last years._

 _Dear boy, you know how utter and singular my devotion is to you and I am sure I have made my displeasure at leaving you well aware, yet this is not enough to satisfy my pining. I miss your touch, warm during the icy nights surely brought on by Boreas himself._

 _Your skin against mine, your lips, flush and soft. It is these thoughts that protect my sanity here in the south, and these thoughts which I live on like manna._

 _You surely laugh at me, reading this. I beg your forgiveness, we are not all as eloquent as you when it comes to professions of love. I suppose I make myself to be some love-sick Romeo, yet it appears that is what you have reduced me to, Alexander._

He cannot read any further. He sick to the stomach, his head spinning and his eyes misting over.

He could hang for this.

He is silent for a while and does not look up when Jefferson begins to speak again.

"As you have read, from these letters, we have reason to believe that you engaged in-" he wrinkles his nose here and looks down at the papers in his hand for a moment. Nevertheless, his next words are said with bombast, a suffusion of glee creeping into his tone as with his next words, he makes Hamilton's heart stop.

"-Gross indecency, or colloquially, sodomy. An offense punishable by death in every state."

He, for what seems like the first time in over fifteen years, has nothing to say. Thousands of possibilities are racing through his mind at a break-neck pace yet all of them seem foolhardy. He cannot deny this, it is written here, right in front of him, yet... It is not in his or Laurens' own pen.

Perhaps- Perhaps he _could_ deny this, perhaps he could claim someone has made these up for purposes of sabotage. Perhaps-

"It baffles me as to why you believe you have anything against me, sirs. These letters are in neither mine nor Laurens' pen. I do not recognise the writing itself, either."

Jefferson smirks and adjusts his cravat. It is Valencienne lace, of course, this is Thomas Jefferson.

"Hamilton, Madison and I are both well acquainted with your style of writing. This entire correspondence reeks of, well, you."

He picks up the letter in front of Hamilton, the one he wrote to John and scans his eyes over the first paragraph, grinning.

It is humiliating, degrading, _suffocating_ , to be under this scrutiny from three men he all but despises. These are his personal letters, his affairs with John have not ever been discussed so openly with another living soul, unless of course, you count Lafayette, who lives all the way in France now.

"I was not aware you were well acquainted with the idiosyncrasies of my love letters, Jefferson. If you were you would realise that these are not mine."

He sees Jefferson blanch slightly but that smirk returns as quickly as it had left.

 _Damn this man to hell._

Jefferson walks around to stand behind Hamilton and Madison and Monroe flank him. It is an obvious attempt to assert domination, physical power. He stands up and turns around to face Jefferson, glaring up at the man's six foot three stature with unbridled rage.

He will not be swayed by this elitist Virginian, too lazy to pass his plans because they require too much work. This Virginian whose skin is not marred by bullet scars and who's dreams are not vivid remembrances of his fellow men dying around him.

This ivy-tower, pampered man will not intimidate him. It does not matter he is nearly fourteen years his senior.

"You underestimate me, Hamilton."

Jefferson's expression is sly, yet he has lost some of that cocky assurance he had displayed upon entering Hamilton's office. He knows now that Hamilton will attempt to refute every claim he puts upon him.

"I would not intrude upon you in this manner if I had not irrefutable evidence to support my claims."

Hamilton wonders what Jefferson could possibly be referring to. He has John's letters safe in his study at home, locked away where no other could access them. He knows John is the same, he has seen the box John keeps their letters in. He knows that John treasures them equally as dearly as he does.

Jefferson reaches into his briefcase and takes out an envelope. It is clearly old but kept in good condition. The wax seal is broken yet Hamilton recognises the imprint left there.

No. It cannot be. Reynolds had mentioned this, threatened to reveal it, but he had always thought it a bluff. Never once had it occurred to him that such substantial evidence against them could exist in the hands if someone so mal-intentioned.

How would Jefferson possibly acquire this? It cannot be an original copy. It _cannot_.

Jefferson slides the letter across the polished wood desk to him and glances at Madison next to him. They are both smiling in much the same way a lawyer smiles when presenting his key witness to the courts. Hamilton knows the feeling well. Undiluted jubilance.

He picks up the letter and slides the paper inside it out, laying it on the desk and beginning to read.

It is his handwriting, his own distinct scrawl that he has perfected over the years. Even here, in this beta stage, it is recognisable immediately. Even furthur damning, is his signature right at the foot of the parchment. It is as though he has signed his own death sentence.

 _My dear Jack,_

 _I acknowledge but one letter from you, since you left us, of the 14th of July which just arrived in time to appease a violent conflict between my friendship and my pride. I have written you five or six letters since you left Philadelphia and I should have written you more had you made proper return. But like a jealous lover, when I thought you slighted my caresses, my affection was alarmed and my vanity piqued._

 _I had almost resolved to lavish no more of them upon you and to reject you as an inconstant and an ungrateful lover. But you have now disarmed my resentment and by a single mark of attention made up the quarrel. You must at least allow me a large stock of good nature._

 _I trust your reasoning for not writing is adequate, you have never shown reason for my concern in regards to our love, for usually, you are as devoted a lover as I. My dear Laurens, the merit I set upon you was not ill placed, for, upon your leaving, I find myself consoled by your, albeit lone, letter and my own reveries of you._

 _I must confess, and it is with the kindest and most well-meaning sentiments, that you do indeed write as a Romeo. Though I hope I am not your Rosaline, a dalliance as brief as the life of the flower she is named. No, I conclude not._

 _While we are on the subject of such dalliances, I trust you have remained faithful to my devotion and not found comfort in Southern men. I would reassure you that I have not, though that seems unavailing. Who would I find comfort in - McHenry?_

 _No, I am sure you are as singular as I in your affections. Who else would touch like I touch? You spoke of my lips and skin, flush and soft. Would the southern gentlemen of Carolina compare? They cannot kiss as I can._

 _I eagerly await your return to Philadelphia, as do the rest of the family. Though I would hope my want to see you has its roots in a different type of love, John._

 _I did not write of how I missed your lips in my last letter and feel somewhat as you have outdone me, Jack. You are well aware how I despise being outdone, so I will conclude in telling you that no other's could compare,_

 _Yrs forever, Alexander Hamilton_

He has not seen this letter since the war, since he set down his quill all those years ago and read back over his writing, already holding the wax stick over the flame in preparation to seal the envelope.

Thomas Jefferson is still watching him, his eyes are alive with terrifying malice, it is what Alexander imagines the unlucky mouse sees before it is snatched up by a particularly hungry cat.

"How- How did you obtain this?"

It is not quite a confession of guilt. He chooses his words carefully, making sure to leave his stance on the matter ambiguous. If he is eventually able to think of a solution, he wants to have as much room to manoeuvre as possible. This means leaving his options open. Burr would approve.

"Let us not delve into specifics Hamilton, after all, they are tricks of the trade."

He is overcome with rage and resists the boyish urge to swing at Jefferson. Is there an trade in humiliation? To seeking out to condemn two men who merely love each other? If it is, it is the trade the devil himself is involved in.

Actually, Hamilton thinks, it is some sort of sickening coincidence that Jefferson is clad almost entirely in red.

Monroe steps further forward into the candlelight and his eyes too are gleeful, though the emotion behind them feels less personal. Monroe is ecstatic about the effects this will have on his career, how with Hamilton gone he will have no one barring him from the decentralised government he so ardently desires. He does not hate Alexander, only his ideologies.

Jefferson's excitement, though is equally personal as it is political. This man has been waiting to find something incriminating on him for close to two years.

Jefferson does not only see Hamilton as a political rival, he despises him for his wit and his refusal to back down and the fact that he is right far more often than he is wrong.

Right now, he has picked up the letter Hamilton wrote to John all those years ago. He starts to read the first paragraph aloud. His southern drawl is mocking and obnoxious, seeping like a thick, syrupy poison through Hamilton's ears.

"Cold in my professions, warm in my friendships, I wish, my Dear Laurens, it might be in my power, by action rather than words, to convince you that I love you."

He looks around at Madison and grins, showing gleaming teeth. Hamilton's hand has somehow found his quill and is gripping it hard, his stomach tight and his teeth clenched tighter.

Jefferson's tone takes on a simpering, falsely sentimental air. He sounds like a poor actor in the travelling theatre companies which frequent the square, or else pile into shabby theatres downtown.

"I shall only tell you that 'till you bade us Adieu, I hardly knew the value you had taught my heart-"

"Enough!"

Hamilton is shaking with rage now and his fist is clenched at his side, his fingernails dig sharply into the soft skin of his palms.

Jefferson slowly brings the letter away from his face, his grip on it slackening. He takes a step closer to Hamilton, looking him up and down with disgust.

"You have no idea how long I had been waiting for this day. When _the_ Alexander Hamilton is revealed to what he truly is- a faggot, sodomite."

"-Jefferson..."

His voice is barely a whisper, it sounds so breakable. So unlike his own. The man in front of him smirks, shaking his head slowly, suddenly breaking the silence and slamming the letter back down on Hamilton's desk. His inkwell jumps upwards and tilts, falling to the floor and smashing instantly.

Hamilton gasps ever so slightly and Jefferson laughs again.

"Do you want to know the most entertaining thing of all, Hamilton? We don't think this little _jeu de folie_ with Mr. Laurens remained in the confines of the war, no. It is clear the two of you are lovers. It is disgusting."

He has hit Hamilton in the exact spot where he knows it will hurt most. He has plunged a knife straight through his ribcage, and it is lodged there now.

John.

They have always been so careful. Under five living souls know their secret, and all of them friends. Eliza, Lafayette, The Baron Von Steuben, Pierre DuPonceau... Two of these friends share their plight, they can understand what it is like to love someone and never be able to show it openly.

He wonders if they are likely to be sent to the gallows for this. That is a punishment for sodomy, or at least he thinks it is... Yet, they are both respected veterans who have worked hard to shape their country. It is possible they will suffer prison, or the lash, or castration, or exile, or-

He thinks of Eliza. The humiliation she would be subjected to. The wife of an adulterer, a sodomite. Though, it was not as though she did not know about John.

She does indeed, know their secret, that when Laurens stays weekends for meetings and political discussions, more than just those events take place in his office, or his bedroom, or the parlour. She knows of stolen kisses in empty corridors and wandering hands underneath desks.

He bites back a groan of anguish at the thought.

After this, there will be no more of these small, stolen pieces of heaven.

No more soft kisses after dinner and playful banter in the street, as they walk to work or some tavern. They are young yet, Hamilton thirty-three and John thirty-five. They are too young for this to end.

Then he wonders what Jefferson intends to do with this information. Is it his plan to publish these letters, watch a righteous mob divest the cabinet of Hamilton without having to lift a finger?

Does he intend to use this as blackmail? It is the ultimate piece of information to hold against someone for purposes of extortion, if that is his plan, Hamilton is at his complete mercy.

Then Hamilton wonders if they have approached John, whether they intend to or not.

"Have you... Does Laurens know about this?"

Jefferson smirks and glances at Monroe with shared mirth. Hamilton grits his teeth and sucks in a long, slow deep breath.

"Surely that is a question that anyone would ask in this situation, Jefferson. Rather juvenile humour, on your part, it seems."

He knows he should not be baiting Jefferson. In fact, it is indescribably foolhardy. If Jefferson wanted to, he could have Hamilton killed or imprisoned or whipped or driven from the country.

Yet, he can not help lash out. It is second nature to aggravate him.

Jefferson, however, doesn't take kindly to his snarkiness. He narrows his eyes and leans closer into Hamilton, still towering above him at six foot two inches tall.

"Your lack of self-preservation shocks me, Hamilton. I need not tell you what we can do with a single letter, a single _sentence_ to the press."

Of course, Philip Freneau. Editor of the Daily Advertiser, founder of The National Gazette. In the palm of Jefferson's hand as usual. So much of Washington's first few months were spent trying to suppress the anti-federalist sentiment that southerners and Democratic-Republicans like him were so set on spreading.

"Of course."

To Jefferson, his response sounds like submission, like an acknowledgement of his superior position over Hamilton. To Hamilton, it is an ambiguous jibe at Jefferson's corruption. He is more thinking aloud than anything else.

Hamilton sinks back down into his chair and crosses one leg over the other. He had felt, standing up, as though he was likely to fall at any given moment. He has no desire to add to the list of humiliations Jefferson now has to mock him for.

"And what, pray tell me, are your intentions with these documents?"

Jefferson smiles and he takes out an envelope from his briefcase, handing it to Hamilton with a flourish. They watch him and breaks the wax seal, sliding out the paper inside and unfolding it.

It seems to be a list of demands, requirements they have drawn up which he must follow in order to keep this matter a secret.

There are many, the list seems endless and they grow more and more outlandish as he reads further down. They have not asked him to resign his cabinet post, which Hamilton grudgingly admits is a wise decision. If he were to leave his job suddenly, in the midst of all this partisan fighting and political unrest, it would look extremely suspicious.

They have told him to end the relationship with John, though he is not sure how they intend to enforce this. They have told him he must quit his financial plan immediately, he must caution his federalist agenda and cease his quote 'sentiments detrimental to the welfare of the southern states'.

Most outlandish of all, and disagreeable to Hamilton, is Jefferson's request that he act as a link between Washington and the Democratic-Republicans. The word spy is not used, and indeed the description sounds more like he will be a diplomat for them, pushing their agenda to Washington, yet, he cannot be complicit in this. He will not betray the General, as he still refers to Washington; sometimes jokingly, often times without realising he is doing so.

He points at the paragraph where this is demanded of him and shakes his head.

"I will not agree to this, Jefferson. Your other demands are extreme to the point of foolishness, but this is treason."

Jefferson kicks the leg of his chair sharply so that he is pulled away from his desk. Then he crouches down so that they are eye to eye. He looked enraged, he looks callous, he looks _dangerous_.

"Hamilton, do you need a reminder of the punishments you will be subject to if this affair is to come out? Sodomy is punishable by,"

And here he lists on his fingers, tapping each one as he goes through all the possible modes of Hamilton's demise.

"Flogging, imprisonment, exile, you would be stripped of your belongings, your land, your military rank, your titles. Your lovely wife would be taken back by Mr. Philip Schuyler and married off to another, more deserving, man. You could _hang_ for this, Hamilton."

He pauses for breath here, watching Hamilton's face as it is drained of colour and taking in the slight trembling of his hands.

"Your precious 'Jack' would suffer the same fate as you. You could both be exiled, that is likely. Either sent to New-South-Wales or back to where you come from. You did grow up on a prison island, did you not?"

Jefferson cannot use that word. He cannot call John by the name only Hamilton is allowed. How dare he?

How dare he talk about Eliza in such a way, his lips are not fit to form the shape that creates her name. _How dare he?_

Instead of saying any of this, he breathes out his response quietly.

"You are wrong, Jefferson."

He sees Madison and Monroe glance at each other, a shared look of confusion and maybe even awe. He knows that no one but himself is known for standing up to Jefferson when he becomes this angry; when he is motivated by so much personal spite.

Hamilton stands up and begins to pace, as he so often does when he is alone in his office. He does not spare a glance in the direction of his three tormentors, rather keeping his eyes focused on the ground as he begins to speak.

"You are wrong, Jefferson. You forget I studied Law, that I know our states' legislations like the back of my own hand. Sodomy was punishable by death until three years ago until the repeals of the penal laws in September 86'."

He is remembering these things as he says them, thinking back to three years ago when the laws were repealed and lesser sentences on homosexuality were imposed. He had squeezed John's hand tight under the meeting table and they had dared to give each other small smiles whenever the new laws were mentioned.

"Even before that, do you truly believe I would be executed for my crime? I hold the rank of Major General in the American army, Treasury Secretary to the first president of the United States of America."

He laughs sharply, as though humoured by Jefferson's ignorance to these matters. In truth, he is.

"I would be unlucky to receive five years in a comfortable prison. As for flogging, that practice is only maintained for petty crimes in small communities, Jefferson. Surely you would know, seeing as you exert the same punishments upon your young slaves."

He pauses here and looks up momentarily to watch Jefferson, relishing in the furious puce shade he is turning.

"Of course, my reputation would be in ruins. Mr. Laurens would suffer the same punishments, Mrs. Hamilton would be taken from me. Yet, these threats are not enough to drive me to treason, sirs. You are mistaken if you believe I would betray the General on your behalf."

In truth, these threats are enough to drive him to treason, yet he knows that if he refuses this signal demand they will compromise with him, rather than expose him. He is more valuable to Jefferson in the cabinet than in a jail cell.

Jefferson looks as though he would like nothing more than to strike him, indeed, Hamilton almost fears this. The man has a formidable temper and Hamilton is under his complete control. What could he do if Jefferson did hurt him?

The moment passes, however, and Jefferson closes his eyes. He shakes his head slowly and sighs. Then, he starts to tut like he is chastising a petulant child. He smiles at Hamilton and puts his hands on his hips, rather like a condescending schoolmaster does.

"Impressive, almost. You do, however, rely too much on your faith in the law, Hamilton. A souvenir of your theoretical knowledge of it in opposition to any practical experience. The law may say one thing, but the people will cry for another. Angry, righteous mobs will do the job of the law enforcers. They do not need court warrants to lynch men they deem guilty, both yourself and Laurens, Hamilton."

He says nothing, looking straight ahead over Jefferson's shoulder rather than into those hate filled eyes above him.

Jefferson seems irritated by his lack of response and grins unpleasantly, sharing a look with Madison who stands diagonally behind his left shoulder.

"And your children, Hamilton. What about them? What are their names, let's see... Philip, Alexander, James and, ah, yes; Angelica. I say, I wonder what Mrs. Schuyler-Church herself will have to say about this affair?"

Hamilton breaks his eye contact with the wall and glares at Jefferson, not only for his mention of Angelica but the fact that he has the audacity to bring up Hamilton's own children. Has this man no shame?

"Jefferson, I suggest we leave my children out of this discussion."

The taller man laughs and it feels like a dull knife is hacking into him, not sharp enough to slice but painful and unsteady and grating.

"What age is Philip now? Around eight? Do you suppose he will understand what his father is, the names that the press and the public will label you?"

Hamilton has reached back his fist and is ready to strike Jefferson for what is coming from his mouth, but is stopped by the taller man's hand closing tightly around his wrist.

Hamilton pulls his hand back and considers swinging again, damned be the consequences.

He will bear Jefferson insulting him. He will let himself be called a faggot, or abhorrent and unnatural. He will not, however, stand for anyone disrespecting his family, John, his _children._

Yet, it is for this exact reason, his love for his family and John, he will check himself. He slumps in his chair and picks up the paper again, reading over the demands with a determined eye. He does not look at Jefferson, he can already well imagine his delighted expression at his submission.

He thinks for as long as he feels he is able, considering, calculating, planning.

"I'm sure we can reach a compromise, Sirs, there must be additional requests we could substitute for the one I am unwilling to abide by."

Jefferson scowls and looks as though he would very much like to swing at Hamilton himself. Alexander recalls one conversation with John in which his friend dryly remarked he and Jefferson should just fight their disagreements out, physically. It would be better than their inauspicious, unavailing debates.

 _"His unrelenting traditionalism grows more wearisome by the minute, John."_

 _Alexander discards his coat over a chair and falls onto the parlour's canapé with a tired sigh. He pulls off his shoes, which, after walking home through the uneven cobbled streets, are hurting his feet._

 _John stands behind him now, draping his arms gently across his shoulders and pulling his hair from his queue, which he knows hurts Alexander's scalp when tied tightly all day. He sighs contentedly and John smooths out his hair, carding a gentle hand through it and discarding the ribbon on the coffee table._

 _"One of these days, it might be wise to have the two of you fight out your disagreements. Your debates lead nowhere, I'm surprised The President hasn't called for this solution already."_

 _Alexander can hear the sly humour in his voice, he twists around and looks up at the man above him with a tired smile. John leans down and they kiss, all of Alexander's worries about Jefferson are forgotten._

Madison now, however, is lightly touching Jefferson's elbow. Their height difference is laughable, yet he has been told the same thing when he is stood next to Jefferson and Washington. He is not exactly tall either.

"Thomas, there are perhaps some changes to be made to our approach, it is not surprising this has arisen."

Monroe steps in now too, nearly equal in height to Jefferson. He seems to agree with Madison and now inclines his head towards the door.

"Perhaps it would be prudent to reconvene after further deliberation, it is late after all."

Jefferson silently seethes for another moment before straightening his posture and raising his chin higher in the air. He sweeps the letters and cheques off Hamilton's desk and into his briefcase with an angry motion, scowling all the while.

"I trust you will think very carefully about your current position, Hamilton. I need not remind you again of our intentions, and the consequences you will face if you do not concede."

Hamilton stands silently and rearranges the items on his desk. Jefferson has made a mess of his things.

"You will hear from me soon, Sirs."

Jefferson tuts, one hand on the doorknob, the other clutching the handle of his briefcase protectively.

"No, you will hear from us Hamilton."

He has barely attempted to disguise the building glee in his voice.

"We will not sit around, waiting for your words."

Hamilton has to clench his jaw tight and press himself hard into his chair, gripping the handles tightly. Jefferson cannot possibly be more childish.

"Do not worry, I am sure there will be little delay. Of course, we need not tell you this meeting must be kept at the utmost secrecy, no one will know about this unless we decide to involve them."

Jefferson smirks and Madison's lips twitch into a quarter smile.

"Good night, Hamilton."

He opens the door and the three men file out, disappearing into the dimly lit corridor and retreating further and further away until their footsteps are as quiet as those of any mouse.

Alexander bends down and begins to pick the broken glass from the puddle of ink on the floor. He throws them into the bin that sits in the corner of his office and lays a blotting sheet over the spill, to absorb what is not yet dry.

Then, he sits back at his desk, he removes his glasses, he takes his head in his hand, and he cries.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Please excuse all the 18th century lifestyle crap, I'm a sucker for historical fashion.**_

 _ **thanks for all your reviews by the way, it makes me really happy to get them!**_

Alexander gathers himself after only a few minutes of this rare, uncharacteristic indulgence in his emotions. He stands and lights an oil lamp, more than once dropping the taper stick and having to re-light the wick. His hands are shaking too violently for any degree of dexterity to be maintained, even for a task so simple as lighting a lamp with a hand so used to steadiness and care.

He leaves his office, locking the door to his study behind him and double checking that it is secure. What has just transpired has left him with a certain paranoia in his mind, like an itch only excessive precaution can scratch. He cannot afford to have anyone else discovering his private affairs.

Alexander's carriage awaits outside on the street, the horse tosses its head restlessly and he must resist the urge to pet its head. He had spent much time with the horses at camp, the stables had been the safest place to meet John and they were quiet enough in the early mornings for him to write unhindered. He is fond of horses.

He nods to the coachman and climbs into the back of the carriage, setting his briefcase down on the empty seat opposite him.

The ride is not a particularly long one, fifteen minutes or so one way. New York is relatively quiet, though occasionally they halt to make room for a larger buggy or cart on the narrower streets.

He watches the night as they ride, an activity he is normally too busy working or writing to engage in.

His thoughts turn to those of his children. Philip is to leave to boarding school next year, having just turned eight years old. Angie is six years old, Alex is four and James is two.

He wonders what would happen to his family if this scandal was to become public knowledge. Most likely they would move upstate to Albany and rely on his father in law's kindness there. Alexander has no qualms about believing that they would be well cared for, but how he would _miss_ them.

James might not remember him if he were to leave now. If he was indeed sent to New-South-Wales or Nevis like Jefferson threatened, James would be left with nothing but nebulous, only half-formed memories of him. It is possible the same might be said for Alex, he is not yet five.

Philip, however, would suffer his absence hardest of all his children. They are together often, he his eldest son, his pride. He is so clever these days, so mature. Already he plays some piano and waves his hands in a manner that announces that of a future orator.

Alexander can not fathom what he might do if they were parted.

They spend Sunday afternoons together, Hamilton teaches him spelling and writing as Eliza's skills there are solid, though somewhat lacking. Philip laughs in a way that makes Alexander fall apart.

John is fond of his eldest son too. Alexander had worried when he was born, that John would resent the child. After all, he was a physical manifestation of his and Eliza's union.

Thankfully, John delights in teaching him to draw when he has the time. Philip may prove to be quite the young artist yet.

They pass through a larger, busier area of the city, near central park. The noises of street vendors, hooves on cobblestones and drunken yelling are cacophonous but welcome upon his ears. He has always loved large cities, and New York is ever growing and expanding, bigger by each passing day.

He always feels as though he is a part of something so vast here, something so grand on a scale he cannot even comprehend. He knows history is happening around him, happening to him, Washington made sure he was aware of this years ago, but it does not fill him with the same paranoia and dread it seems to His Excellency.

He has always felt spurred on, heartened by the knowledge that his name will appear in the history books of America, that he will have a legacy, that he will have made something from the ashes if his childhood. He knows the world is watching him, and to an extent, this scares him, yet until now no sordid affairs have sullied his public image.

Until now he has had no reason to be anything but delighted with the vast theatre of the universe at which he is centre stage.

He puts his face in his hands and closes his eyes. Tears are not falling, nor even welling up in his eyes, but his chest is tight and pained, like a rope being pulled tighter and tighter in opposing directions.

He knows they are approaching his home by the brightness filtering flesh pink through his fingers, from outside the carriage window. His street is better lit than the majority of the city.

Lanterns flicker in every window and some are hung on the branches of trees, so as to better guide the way for night time wanderers.

He steps out into the night with a nod at the driver and pays him quickly, tipping his hat. The coach clatters off down the street and disappears into the dim until it is not even a vague speck.

He walks to the front door and enters his home, noting that the candles in the kitchen have been blown out. Emily, Constance, Noah must have retired and Isaac will have gone home. He does not begrudge them for this, he has told them many a time not to wait up for his sake.

He lights an oil lamp left in the entrance way and guides a path carefully upstairs, making sure to step on the places he knows will not creak. The entire house is deep in their slumber, he does not wish to wake them.

His and Eliza's bedroom is dark when he enters, the curtains are only open a crack so nothing but a small sliver of light falls upon the bed. It rests upon Eliza's hand, delicate and soft.

He changes quietly, stowing his shoes neatly in his armoire and draping his suit over the back of a chair. The buttons on his jacket and waistcoat take some time, as does his cravat, yet even though his fingers are trembling, the movement is mere muscle memory nowadays.

He pulls the ribbon from his queue, runs a brush harshly through his hair to remove the powder, then ties it all back up again. He does hate this routine, how he wishes he could wear his hair loosely tied and unpowdered like the labourers and workmen he sees yelling and lifting crates at the dock every morning.

Though, there are factors that lessen this blow to his comfort and patience. John's fingers always feel like bliss when ran through his hair, or pulling teasingly at it while they kiss.

He is now only left in his undershirt, slightly cold in the spring chill of the house with goosebumps blooming across his arms. Seeking warmth, he climbs quickly under the bedclothes and pulls the the blankets tightly around himself. Eliza seems to have sensed his presence and rolls closer to him in her sleep, draping an arm loosely around his shoulder and tucking her chin into his chest.

He stays in this position, allowing her to hold him like this, though he does not reciprocate the movement. He bestows a single kiss to her forehead, lit by golden light from the street outside, and closes his eyes.

He is not surprised that it takes him over an hour to succumb to the tempting lull of sleep. He has never been able to properly rest when his mind is working so frantically, and even when he does eventually tire and give in, it is to a fitful, tossing and turning sort of slumber.

* * *

Dawn breaks far too soon for Alexander's liking, throwing bright beams of light in through the curtains and onto his face, awakening him. The fire has been lit, by either Emily or Isaac earlier in the morning. Even though spring is well underway these days, it is necessary to have the fire lit. The house can become quite drafty. New York is not nearly as warm as Charlestown in Nevis was.

The room is warm now, though, because of it. The tips of his toes where they poke out from beneath the quilt are not cold.

He stirs then and rolls onto his other side to face Eliza.

She is already awake. Her dark hair pools around her face on the white cotton pillow, soft and freshly washed looking. Her eyes watch him contentedly, large and doe-like. He forces a smile and kisses her forehead gently, moving slightly closer to his wife. He cannot let on that anything is out of the ordinary.

"You retired late last night, did you have any supper?"

He sighs and she plays with a strand of his hair, dark red against the white fabric of his undershirt.

"I confess I did not. It had been too late, I did not wish to wake the house with any noise and the servants were asleep."

She frowns slightly but says nothing, nodding in weary acceptance and pressing her face into the crook of his arm. He allows her to embrace him in this way and lets his own arm rest over her shoulder, yet feels none of the warmth he usually would in a moment like this. He is far too preoccupied with his buzzing thoughts, swarming around in his head like a cloud of summer midges.

"Will you accompany the children and myself to the park this afternoon? Alex is incessantly climbing the trees there and James often copies him. I would not want them to fall and think a second set of hands might be of some help."

Alexander nods and Eliza rolls over, sitting up and stretching, her arms and face are golden in the morning light.

"I would delight to."

She smiles and steps lightly over to her armoire, withdrawing her under things and perusing her different dresses in preparation for Emily to change her.

Isaac will bring the clothes he asked to be laundered up soon, along with his shaving things.

He slips on a loose banyan robe and warms his hands by the fire while Eliza examines the lace sleeve of a dress. He hears footsteps on the stairs, it is either Isaac or Emily.

There is a knock on the door to which he opens it slowly, forcing a smile upon seeing Isaac stood in the hallway, holding his clothes and other various required items.

"Good morning, sir. I have the things you wished cleaned. Do you require any assistance at all?"

Alexander sighs at the formality of it all and shakes his head, taking the things from the young man and smiling.

"No, thank you, Isaac. How is the family?"

The man's face splits into a wide smile and his goes slightly pink with excitement. He is young to be married with a child already, though Hamilton supposes he was only twenty-five when Philip was born.

"They are very well, thank you. William is just starting to teethe now."

Eliza calls then from inside the room, her tone is light and playful.

"Oh, horror! You should prepare to be up at all hours of the night!"

Isaac laughs and nods, his grey eyes hold a certain brightness in them that momentarily fills Alexander with a warm sense of nostalgia. He is by no means a worn, seasoned parent, he is young yet and knows will have more children in time, but has passed the youthful days of fresh, paternal excitement.

Then, Isaac nods politely, still smiling, and turns, walking back down the stairs to the kitchen.

Eliza smiles after the man as Alexander closes the door and holds out the skirt of a dress so as to more closely examine the stitching.

"James has 16 of his teeth now, he seems to have passed the stage where he keeps us up every night."

Alexander hums in agreement and nods, setting his shaving things on the dresser and unfolding his clothes.

"Indeed."

He changes then, into green breeches, a matching waistcoat and jacket with the lace-edged cravat Angelica sent him as a gift from across the pond. She had written that they were the height of fashion in London.

He places his shaving things next to the bowl of hot water and flannel on the dresser. It does not take him long, he wets and lathers his face with soap (it is jasmine scented, John likes it very much on him) then uses the straight razor to shave the stubble growing around his jaw, wiping the foam away when he is finished and lastly, powdering the now smooth skin.

Because he has not got to go to work today, he decides not to powder his hair. To powder one's hair is standard procedure for most men of his status, yet himself and many other veterans of the war, John included, seldom subscribe to fluid fashion trends. Himself, The General and John prefer their hair done simply. Powdering it is bad enough, he cannot fathom how some men wear wigs.

Besides, if he is to visit John today, having his hair powdered will hinder certain activities.

Emily has just knocked on the door, arrived to help Eliza change when he finishes brushing and tying his hair.

He nods to her as he leaves the room, she is wearing the standard attire of a lady's maid. Fashionable, neat clothing though understated and proper enough not to draw attention away from her mistress. Eliza enlisted her help recently after Sarah, her last lady's maid, fell pregnant.

The rest of the house is awake and Alexander glances at the grandfather clock in the hallway as he passes, it is ten after six.

Constance can be heard making breakfast in the kitchen below and Noah has most likely gone to the market, as is usual in the morning.

He fetches the paper from where it has been delivered on the veranda and sits in the parlour reading. He wonders if John will call today, he often does on Saturdays as they share similar work schedules and also has the day off.

He has no family to attend to, at least not in the country, as Hamilton does, so often spends his free hours with Alexander. Today, however, Alexander is not sure if seeing him would be prudent.

It is important he acts as though everything is ordinary, yet Jefferson had asked, no _demanded_ , that he end their relationship.

Yet he yearns to see John. He misses him, for they have not crossed paths in a perhaps a week. They are both so busy with their work.

Perhaps he will risk it. He has not negotiated or agreed upon Jefferson's demands yet, he has not confirmed anything resolute.

Perhaps there is a loophole through which he can worm his way.

He hears a pair footsteps on the stairs, signalling Eliza's arrival. She smiles at him as she enters the parlour, clad in the new pink dress she had made for spring's warm arrival.

It suits her, embroidered with swirling floral patterns around the neckline and edged with soft looking lace. He finds himself thinking that John would look well in the same colour.

"Anything of note in the paper?"

She sits beside him, lounging gracefully on the sofa and pulling the broadsheet over towards her with small, delicate fingered hands.

"When is there not? Yet more dialogue on the first census and increasing tension in France."

She nods and reads the first page fervently, as hungry for news and information as he is. She is like her sister in that respect, himself also. Though, he knows the difference in them lies with what they would use that knowledge for. Whether it be for personal interest or career.

But her reasoning matters little. Eliza is intelligent, curious and witty. He has had the fortune to marry a woman like him in those respects, and they often discuss his work and current affairs with each other. Eliza is not a woman to be underestimated, despite the rather demure first impression she may present.

"Burke is a fool." Eliza puts down the paper and sighs, her expression mirrors his thoughts on the article she has just read.

"He says now he will publish a pamphlet of his opinions, as if Parisians will succumb to his sanctimony. What does he hope to accomplish?"

Alexander sighs and shakes his head, folding the paper in two and recrossing his legs.

"Men like him need not reason to boast their own agendas. He must enjoy the feeling of having political sway. Parliament will no doubt adore what he publishes, anything that extinguishes libertarian sentiment they will hold as gospel."

Eliza smiles and opens her mouth to respond, but is cut off suddenly when the door of the parlour opens and Constance appears with their breakfasts. Alexander stands, he is used to the movement in company of women, even if they are servants, and takes the tray from her with a smile.

"Much obliged, Constance. Have you dined yet?"

She nods with a small smile, eyes lowered. She is a new addition to their household, evidently unaccustomed to his and Eliza's warm treatment of household servants. She will get used to this with time.

Emily already has, he has heard her laughing with his wife while helping her dress in the mornings.

Breakfast is a quiet affair. He cannot force himself to eat much of what has been made, even though it is fresh fruit and bread with strawberry jam. Eliza says nothing of his poor appetite but eyes his nearly untouched plate with part disapproval and part concern.

"When shall I wake the children?"

Eliza finishes her tea and sits back as she speaks, her posture relaxed. He has only just drained the last of his coffee, liquid seems easier for his stomach to handle than food at present.

"Soon, I imagine they will want some more sleep, since it is early yet."

Eliza nods and moves to the window, watching their small garden with her hands folded elegantly on her dress.

"I would have imagined you to want additional rest this morning, you seem fatigued."

He looks away, biting his lip and pushing the plate in front of him further into the centre of the table.

"I am fine. I would not be able to sleep any longer than what I already have."

Eliza hums in disapproval and returns to her position next to him, holding his shoulders comfortingly and leaning her face closer to his.

"You work yourself too hard, Alexander. You should fall ill if you continue this way, it has happened before."

He grits his teeth, he would call this a slight against his often ill health, yet he knows it is the truth.

He has worked himself to the point illness before, years ago, after The General sent him to request troops from Gates in New York. He was held up for almost three months by a fever that nearly took his life, he still remembers how he seemed to flit between freezing cold and burning sweat. The doctor has said he would likely not survive.

He knows the fault there was partially the icy weather, yet must also admit that he had not eaten, slept or rested enough during the course of his mission. The fever had struck his companion Gibbs also, yet he had taken proper care of himself. He had recovered rapidly.

"I am in perfect health, Betsey. I am well able to take care of myself."

Eliza nods and pats down his cravat fussily, tightening the knot to her liking.

"What are your plans for today?"

He shrugs his shoulders and begins to set Eliza's empty plate and cup back onto the tea tray, so as to make it easier for Constance when she comes to collect them. He picks at the fruit in his bowl, hoping to appease Eliza by eating a few strawberries.

"I think I will visit John, perhaps browse the bookshop by Getty's square, then return here for two o'clock to accompany you to the park."

Eliza nods, once, not curtly or even in a bad-tempered manner, just slightly dismissive. She says nothing on his mention of John.

The situation between himself, Eliza and John is one of many layers, a particularly long and complex backstory and much misunderstanding and pain.

After the war, when Philip was born, it seemed certain that his relationship with John would end. And for at least nine months, it had.

Eliza had known about his peculiarity, his ability to love both men and women, since they'd married and though it had surprised her, she had not reacted with the same abject horror he had expected.

The relationship with John, however, she had been unsure about. He had told Eliza that it was over and that now he was wed to her, there would be nothing more between him and the other man, yet even at the time, he had known this was a lie.

He loves John. He has since he was a very young man, winded and knocked breathless by love, and knows he always will. John, perhaps, is what a romanticist may call his soulmate or his _twin-flame_.

Plato did not lie in his writings, for it takes the work of a God to split two joined as one apart.

He did not speak of these things before he met John, not think about love this way. Yet John continues to bring out the most passionate, ardent sentiments in him. Sometimes he does fear he is a romantic at heart. He blames John.

In the months after the war, parted from John, who had still been stationed in Charlestown, South Carolina, he had fallen deep into a sort of depression. Philip's birth had helped, but Eliza had known something was not quite right with him.

He remembers many a long, dark day in which he would do little else than write and sleep, often remaining in bed well into the afternoon and leaving the house only for lectures and important cases.

Eliza had once remarked that it seemed he was an entirely different person to the one she'd met during the war.

When John returned however, in '82, he had gone through a certain period of ambivalence regarding the man. The first time he'd seen John after the war, one late summer afternoon when New York was hot and alive with crowds and life, they had been intimate for the first time in over a year.

It had been euphoric, it had been bliss, it had been like manna in the desert when he was starving.

But it had broken some part of him.

The interaction had, needless to say, led to a fair portion of guilt on his part. Many a night he had spent sleepless, in contrast to the eleven or twelve hours he would slumber or spend in lethargy before John's return. He could not find any excuse for his infidelity, for his betrayal of Eliza.

But then, of course, there had been his betrayal of John.

He remembers feeling as though he was not good enough for either of them or the very earth they walked upon. Often, he still feels this way, he does not think he deserves either of them.

Eliza must have noticed a change about him following this event and not long after that hot, dusty day in late August, she had asked to speak with him regarding the situation.

It had been a long discussion, painful and awkward and uncomfortable for them both, but with one important outcome; that Eliza could not reconcile in herself parting the two of them. That she was willing to make a sort of compromise. He could remain with John, but no other man, or woman. He had to keep the relationship in utmost secrecy, and the children could never know.

So things have remained in a similar state since then. He and John spend much time together, though his home life with his wife is kept polarised and separate from his life with John.

It is strange, though he knows it is a situation which works closest to everyone's needs. Eliza understands that he loves her as much as John, that he values her equally and adores their children with all his heart. John is the same, and they all seem content, so he thinks there is no reason for any change in the arrangement.

Eliza, though, is, for lack of a better word, slightly prudish when it comes to relationships between men, so they tend not to talk about the matter very often.

Constance returns then, at Eliza's call and clears up their cutlery and tray. Alexander can not suppress the pang of guilt he feels when she takes his nearly untouched plate. It was not that the meal was not delectable, in fact, he is sure he would have enjoyed it immensely any other day, yet he cannot force himself to eat when he is in this state.

"It was delightful, Constance, I am afraid my appetite this morning is rather poor."

She shakes her head dismissively and smiles, perhaps not so stiffly as before.

"It did not take so much time to prepare, perhaps Emily will want the fruit."

Eliza nods and smiles, warm and comforting as ever. Constance takes the tray and nods respectfully, opening the door skilfully with her elbow and backing carefully out of the room.

"A sweet girl, Constance. I hope, in time, she will become more comfortable here."

Alexander nods again and picks up the paper from where it lies on the sofa. He thinks he will leave it in the playroom for Philip to read, the boy is old enough perhaps for certain parts of the newspaper.

"Will you walk to Morgan street or summon a carriage?"

Morgan street is where John lives. It would be only seven or eight minutes in a carriage but nearly twenty walking. Though, the day is a fresh, pleasant one. Perhaps some time outside with his thoughts will clear his head.

It is imperative he think of a solution to the issue hanging over him at present.

"I think I shall walk, the day seems pleasant enough."

Eliza smiles and nods, for a moment gazing towards the open door and in the direction of the stairs, behind which the children still sleep.

"If you do call at the bookshop, perhaps you could acquire some more instructions on the piano for Philip? It might prove useful for him to study them when I am occupied."

Alexander's mouth twitches into a slight smile, perhaps the first semi-genuine one of the day, and he nods.

"I shall do my very best."

* * *

The approach to Morgan street is a chilly, wind-bitten one. Leaves batter his cheeks and whip around him like bullets. When he first stepped outside, the sudden flash of movement around him caused the soldier in him to start and enter a heightened state of alert. They appeared at first like redcoats' musket balls.

John's home is a rather picturesque, comfortable one. A modest sized, two-bedroom townhouse with a quaint garden and veranda they often watch the sunset on. It is a far cry from the large, almost aggressively southern plantation home his father owns in South Carolina.

Though, it is not surprising that John wants as little to do with his childhood home as possible.

He walks up the steps to the veranda and pulls back the knocker, rapping twice on the crimson front door. Through the thick, frosted glass he can see a vague shape hurrying to answer his knocking.

It will probably not be John, more likely Rebecca or Robert. Like himself, John owns few servants. Neither of them see much use of employing excessively, John even more so than him as he lives alone.

Sure enough, when the door is pulled open, he is greeted with the freckled face of Robert, John's manservant who acts as a valet, a doorman and runs general errands all at once.

The man nods politely, stepping aside and holding the door open so that Alexander can step inside.

"Mr. Hamilton, sir. Mr. Laurens is in the parlour."

Alexander removes his hat and smiles stiffly at Robert, walking past him and down the hallway towards the parlour.

It is slightly smaller than his own at home, but just as beautiful. John has a keen eye for matters such as decoration and colour, so it comes as no surprise that not only his parlour, but his whole house, is very pleasingly decorated.

The sofas are embroidered with soft, swirling designs in rich navy and agean blue with varnished, tan wood arms. The walls are white with light blue fleur-de-lis details along the top plate. A small, polished table in the centre of the room is laden with books and papers, as well as what appears to be John's morning coffee.

On the walls hang pieces of John's own artwork, the subjects of which are mostly animals and landscapes; he has a certain affinity for nature. The whole thing gives off an aura not to dissimilar to that of a library or cosy study, rather than a parlour. Alexander likes it much better than the frivolous, cold ones he finds in many others' homes. It has personality; _John's personality._

John himself is sat in the chair directly beside the window, facing the garden. The shrubbery and flora outside is blooming and flourishing under the season's attentive care and the entire room is cast in a vaguely green glow, almost like that of a greenhouse. Ferns curl in tiny, winding spirals directly below the window and hyacinths flower dark purple a few feet away.

John looks up as he steps into the room, his whole face breaking into a delighted smile. His hair is un-powdered, blond and tied loosely in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He wears a simple, casual suit, though he has forgone the jacket and his cravat is loosened.

"Alexander, you are a sight for sore eyes."

He smiles and walks over to where John is sat, perching on the arm of his chair so the tips of his feet just brush the floor, and examining what he is reading keenly.

" _The social contract_ , Rousseau. A re-reading?"

John closes the book and nods, ignoring Alexander's hiss of displeasure as he folds the corner of a page over to mark it. He places the book on the coffee table, atop a growing pile that seems composed of Kant, a Plato and what appears to be a pamphlet on the work of Fragonard.

"Have you read the article in The Journal about Burke yet?"

John shakes his head and allows one of his paint-stained, long fingered hands to rest casually on Alexander's mid-thigh.

"I have not had the chance, Rousseau proved as captivating as ever."

Alexander grins and traces one hand up John's chest, brushing his throat and reaching around to hold the back of his head delicately, leaning into to press their lips together.

"Ah!"

John tilts his head back marginally, his blue eyes so close to Alexander's that they encompass almost his entire vision. His voice is full of laughter, a mocking sternness in his reprimanding tone.

"The servants are still here, you are too eager for security's sake."

Alexander rolls his eyes and leans back slightly, though shifting closer to John's touch so the man's hand moves from his thigh to his hip, warm and comforting and grounding.

"Shall I send Robert on an errand? Perhaps Rebecca can do some shopping at the market."

John smiles devilishly and Alexander returns his grin, nodding and shifting to the side slightly so that John can stand.

The blond man walks to the door of the parlour and into the hallway, his footsteps can be heard pattering across the wooden floor towards the kitchen, where Robert and Rebecca will be.

Alexander hears John's voice speaking then, muffled through layers of plaster and wood so that he cannot make out succinct words.

He returns maybe two minutes later, Rebecca and Robert's footsteps follow him to the hallway and he hears the sound of fabric whispering and buckles clicking. Rebecca will have donned her cloak and Robert his boots.

It is another minute until the front door is heard slamming and John's footsteps draw closer towards the parlour once more. Alexander stands eagerly from his position on the armchair and steps lightly over to where John pokes his head around the door, smirking.

The shorter man stands on his tip toes to reach the other man's lips and they kiss in a frenzy, prefaced with a clash of teeth before they find a rhythm and settle into it, smiling into each other's mouths. Alexander lets John hold him gently by the waist, it makes him feel safe.

Suddenly, the taller man lifts Alexander a few inches off his feet by his waist and turns him around so that he is pushed firmly up against the wall. Alexander yelps in a mixture of indignation and mirth, wrapping his legs around John's waist for fear of slipping otherwise.

John then entangles one of his long-fingered, artistic hands into Alexander's hair, moves his mouth from Alexander's lips to his jaw, and then the soft plain of his throat, pressing kisses to the pale, freckled skin there.

Alexander forgets all that is happening with Jefferson, Monroe and Madison. He forgets the man whose lips he is kissing may be taken from him and that he could do nothing to stop it if he was, for he would be taken too.

With hands pulling at the buttons on his waistcoat and the ribbon in his hair, he forgets that this may all be over far too soon.


	3. Chapter 3

John's arm weighs heavily around his waist, draped casually over the warm skin there. His finger traces languid, sleepy patterns onto Alexander's hip.

The sheets of John's bed and their bare limbs all tangle together in a warm, convoluted mess. John's breathing is gradually softening, slowing to a gentle flutter.

Alexander thinks he must be tired, indeed, he knows the man well enough to presume that he was up late the night before painting or reading. It is a rather unhealthy habit, but presently, he is glad for his lover's slumber.

He does not want John to see the tears that fall now unhindered down his face. He lies facing away from the man, his spine pressed flush against his stomach.

Alexander, with one free hand, must grip hard onto the side of the mattress to stop the sobs from racking his entire body and, by extension, the bed. He does not want to wake John. He must not wake John.

He cannot believe he has been so foolish, so careless! He is selfish, he is asinine, he is _in danger._ His greatest political enemy reveals to him that he knows his secret, his peculiarity, and his first course of action is to return to the comfort of what will almost certainly be his downfall. He has put _his Jack_ in danger by returning here, he has been _indescribably_ stupid.

He remembers the days they did this during the war, found shelter with each other from frozen, bloodied fingers and freezing mud and rain. He remembers it being desperate, burning, feverish. But... He thinks he fell in love after the first time he and John lay together, rather than before.

It had come about by flirtation, friendship and increasingly affectionate touches, but he doesn't think it had been love at first, he thinks it had been coping. He thinks it had built up slowly, his love for the man. Like a mountain, jagged and steep with an eventual, sheer drop. Falling in love with John had been like jumping from a great height. Like he was Icarus, surely destined for the sun to burn him, send him crashing to the sea below.

Only, he had not.

Or maybe... Maybe he never _fell_ in love with John, maybe it was always there. Maybe he just became wise to it, when he noticed himself staying with the man after they'd slept together. When they'd hold each other, bring each other coffee in the mornings and talk late, late into the night. He remembers the summers they spent together in humid tents, writing until eleven or later and talking until the sunrise flowed through the tent opening like the tide.

Slowly, he untangles his legs from John's and sits up, keeping his face turned away from the man that lies behind him. He hears John stir slightly, a hand strokes from his lower back to his thigh.

"Where are you going, my love?"

John's voice is muffled by the pillow his face is pressed into, sleepy and contented too. Alexander must clench his fist hard and regulate his breathing to answer in an ordinary, casual manner.

"I wish for some water, I shall return soon."

John grunts, already dozing off again. Alexander stands up and reaches for a loose, blue robe cast over the back of a chair. He slips it on, the silk soft against his bare shoulders, and walks through the house. The floorboards are cold against his bare feet. He enters the kitchen, a usually warm, cosy room full of chatter and delicious smells.

It is quiet now, however. The is unlit and smoking gently in the grate. Spices hang drying from a rack on the far wall and some dough proves on the counter, sprinkled lightly with flour. Rebecca has evidently picked some hyacinths from the garden as they sit, delicately beautiful, in a vase on the window sill.

The light that streams in through the window is oyster grey and mottled by the shadows of clouds overhead. The sky looks as though it has been pieced together with torn scraps of paper.

He moves to the lattice pained pantry, takes a bottle of whisky from the shelf and pours himself a glass. It is dark bronze, the light refracts through the crystal tumbler so coppery shadows are cast onto his hand. He takes a small sip, swishing it around for a few moments in his mouth. John has good taste in liquor. He suddenly wants to cry again. He remembers late nights with the other Aides in taverns, remembers he and John slipping off to share whiskey and body heat alone together.

He places the bottle back into the pantry and leans against the wall of the kitchen, sipping slowly at his drink. John dozes, the servants will not return till sometime late noon and he wishes only to stand here, alone, nursing this glass.

He cannot fathom how he reconciled in coming here today. How did he convince himself it would be wise to? If Jefferson were to discover this meetup, he would have his name emblazoned across every newspaper in the country by tomorrow.

He drinks the last of his whisky, splashes his face with water from a pitcher on the table and walks back to the bedroom, his feet bare and silent on the hardwood floors. John looks up at him through half-lidded eyes as he enters, smiling drowsily. His blond hair is mussed, his face is still rather pink.

Alexander's heart aches.

"All is well?"

Alexander nods, smiles and climbs back into the bed, John's skin is warm and his feet have become like ice from walking across the cold floor of the kitchen.

"All is well."

John returns the smile, pulls the loose robe off from around Alexander's shoulders and kisses him gently, allowing one hand to rest languidly in his hair.

"It's been too long, Alexander."

He forces himself to nod and presses his face to John's clavicle in order to conceal his expression.

"Indeed, Jack."

"You haven't been working too hard?"

Alexander chuckles into John's collarbone and gives no reply. John lets out an exasperated, long-suffering sort of sigh.

"You will never change, will you, dearest?"

Alexander doesn't particularly want to talk at the present moment. He kisses gently along John's collarbone, occasionally scraping his teeth playfully across the warm skin. John strokes his hair contentedly, _complacently_.

"Do you wish me to?"

John laughs quietly and shakes his head, twisting a red strand of Alexander's hair between his thumb and index finger.

"Never."

Alexander really ought to leave. He cannot let on that anything is out of their blissful usual, but he cannot remain here. It is early yet, too early to return home for the trip to the park, but it would be better even to wander the city than to lie here, in bed, with John. Despite the fact that he would much rather the latter.

"I think, John, that I should be leaving soon."

John frowns and strokes his head protectively, instinctively pulling him a little closer.

"So soon? It is not yet midday, I'd hoped you would stay for lunch."

Alexander squirms, caught in ambivalence. He wishes he could stay, dine with John, discuss their readings and John's art, the season, each other; anything but politics.

But he cannot place himself any longer in this man's company.

"I- Eliza wished me to buy some new scores for Phillip and I will accompany herself and the children to the park later."

John places a kiss on the tip of his nose and winds their legs tighter together, holding him close.

"I own some Bach pieces he may have, I do not play, I have no use for them."

Alexander hesitates, half wanting to pull away from the man and curl up alone under the bed clothes, half wanting to bury his face into his chest and stay there for all of eternity. These are young, immature, dramatic impulses but he has never had reason to feel any less then ardently in love in John's presence.

"I could not, John. I am happy to buy some for him myself."

John watches him strangely, inching backwards and looking him up and down. The blankets have slipped to cover only their lower halves.

"Nonsense, you mustn't leave yet, you said yourself the visit to the park was later in the day."

John rests his chin on Alexander's head, pulling him closer, as though he is afraid the man will be stolen from him. Alexander thinks wryly that this may happen yet.

"I will stay for some tea?"

Alexander half concedes, his stomach twisting unpleasantly. John leans back, his face the picture of delight. He pulls Alexander into a tight hug once more and then sits up, rolling his shoulders and stretching his joints.

"You did not plan to bed me and then make your leave, did you, Alexander? That would be most impolite."

The younger man chokes on a laugh and sits up himself, kicking away the sheets. His voice is thick with emotion when he responds. By the way the muscles in John's back tense and his shoulders clench forwards, Alexander knows that he notices this.

"I did not, Jack."

John turns around to face him and studies him closely, his brows are drawn together in concern and he reaches a hand out to stroke Alexander's jaw gently.

"Are you alright? You sounded for a moment..."

Alexander shakes his head and stands up, moving towards his clothes where they lie on the floor, hastily removed.

"Merely glad to have seen you again. I missed you."

John's smile is apparent in his voice when he speaks a moment later, Alexander does not have to turn to see how his blue eyes would shine, how his golden eyelashes would flutter.

"Jefferson would pin you as a heartless sceptic, how would he react to such affection, Alexander?"

The question leaves him cold, with goosebumps down his arms and thighs. John knows nothing of the effects his words have, so Alexander must jest in return.

"Do not think I throw around such affections, I could manage well without anyone but my family and you, John."

He pulls on stockings, shirt and breeches, lacing the strings as adeptly as he can with trembling, unsteady hands. In the mirror opposite, he catches a glimpse of his appearance. His hair is mussed incriminatingly, the ribbon lies somewhere on the floor of the parlour and his throat is scattered with little pink bruises.

He feels sick.

He cannot believe what he has done.

"I— I cannot stay long."

John sighs and drags a comb through his hair, reaching for a ribbon on his dresser. Alexander waits as he ties his hair, perhaps a little more elaborately than he had before. He twists two small sections at the front of his head and adds strands of hair to the twist as he brings it around to the back of his head. His hands work quickly, efficiently.

Sometimes, Alexander forgets that under all the humble and down to earth personality he knows John to have, he was born and raised a southern gentlemen and then educated in Europe among courtesans and nobility.

He finishes, steps lightly over to where Alexander stands and kisses him, softly, one hand cupping his jaw. Alexander's body feels detached from his mind, because while his thoughts stray to Jefferson, to Madison, to his conflict with them, his body responds. His arms drape over John's shoulders, his mouth needs no prompting to press against John's softly in reciprocation.

"Shall I make tea?"

John pulls away, smiles and guides him to the parlour with a hand on his lower back. He sits, watches the garden and scans John's pamphlet on Fragonard as he waits. He has never quite been sure of his thoughts on the artist. His paintings, with their thin veneer of innocence disguising underlying eroticism, somehow, make him feel a little disjointed.

John seems to admire his work though, perhaps more for his use of colour and technique than the beautiful women that Fragonard's subjects tend to be. Alexander allows himself a small chuckle at this.

John walks in a few minutes later with the tea caddy and hot water. He stirs his own, passes Alexander the milk and lets him add the leaves and water to his cup.

"So, what of Phillip? When we last saw each other he wished to be a great painter, have his ambitions changed since?"

Alexander smiles, glad for this welcome distraction from his thoughts.

"Several times. Just yesterday, he wanted to be a banker yet the day before it was a doctor."

John laughs and fixes his eyes on Alexander's over the rim of his teacup. The gaze is gentle, soft. Alexander will miss it.

"And of yourself? You seem tired."

"Eliza said the very same..." Alexander mutters into his cup, avoiding John's gaze now, a little uncomfortable. This subject broaches too closely onto the one of work, of Jefferson, than he might like.

"And she is an observant woman, not one whose opinion should be cast aside, Alexander. You must take better care of yourself."

Alexander sighs, nods and takes another sip of tea. He realises then, that his hair is loose and hanging around his face rather irritatingly. He puts his teacup down onto its plate and stands, walking to where he sees his ribbon lying forgotten on the floor.

"Ah, I'd half hoped you had forgotten."

Alexander smiles and reaches up to tie his hair. John moans and pouts playfully, setting his tea cup on top of a copy of Burke's _An inquiry._ Alexander would complain, but he is not so fond of Burke. Let his works be used as coasters for all he cares.

"But there is no one else home, must you put it back?"

Alexander laughs and fixes the ribbon back in place, it is a simple style. He recalls once, Jefferson saying to Madison that he resembled a simple Scottish farmer, what with his red hair, freckles and distaste for courtesan pleasantries and manners. He remembers finding it amusing, Eliza and he had laughed over it. Now it only serves as hindsight, how he should have been more careful, realised Jefferson would be out to dig something up about him.

They finish their tea and Alexander decides that he really must leave. He should never have come here in the first place, he shouldn't have agreed to stay for tea. John looks displeased, even worried, when he moves to the hallway to put on his coat and shoes.

"Will I see you tomorrow?"

Alexander glances, evades the question. He would love nothing better, except his and John's freedom, and that is what is at stake here.

"Perhaps, I will have to make sure I've not agreed to any prior engagements."

John furrows his brows, says nothing and pulls him in for a quick kiss. Alexander melts into it. It takes every ounce of willpower he possesses to not push them back towards the bedroom. But he cannot, so instead he pulls back and smiles. Genuinely, this time. For he does not know when he will next see the man.

"Adieu, dearest."

John's face breaks into a broad smile, his blue eyes are so bright. This man will damn him, has already damned him, yet Alexander doesn't mind. He would be damned a thousand times over for that same smile.

"Adieu, Alexander."

* * *

Alexander is unprepared for the shape that flies towards him upon opening the door to his home, knocked a step or two backwards as the weight of his son hits him in the stomach.

"Papa!"

He catches little Alex just in time and swings the child up into his arms, grinning broadly as the boy scrambles for purchase, giggling, holding tight to his father's shoulders. He pretends to be fearful, allows his voice to tremble exaggeratedly.

"I beg, do not hurt me! I'll give over all I have!"

The four-year-old laughs and reaches out a small, chubby hand to tickle his side, his small legs resting on Alexander's hips. Alexander lets out a small oomph of surprise and bites down on his lip to prevent himself from laughing.

"Pip will not play with me, papa, he says he is busy!"

Alexander catches his son's hand before he loses his dignity further, he is ticklish and close to laughing aloud.

"Well, we can't have that, can we? Is he in the playroom?"

Phillip sits at the piano in the playroom, fingers dancing over the keys in a scale, his tongue stuck out between his lips in concentration.

"Phillip, surely you can set aside your scale to play with Alex for a little while?"

The boy looks up quickly at the sound of his father's voice and grins broadly, flinging himself at the man, his sudden movement creating a breeze that sends music sheets fluttering to the floor.

"Papa! Were you with Mr. Laurens? Did he say when he would come to help me with my paintings?"

Alexander puts down little Alex, takes Phillip under his arms and hoists him into his arms for a few moments, pretending to groan with the effort.

"You're getting to be quite the young man, soon I shan't be able to lift you."

Phillips struggles, embarrassed, in his grip and Alexander takes pity on him and sets him down. Phillip is the oldest, at eight. He likes to lord over his siblings a little and feels his reputation damaged by such childish games. It amuses Alexander greatly, the boy is only eight yet he likes to play at being a man.

"And yes, I was with Mr. Laurens. In fact, he gave me some music for you. You'll have to thank him when you next see him."

Phillip grins and Alexander reaches into his pocket for the scores. Phillip places them very carefully on the piano stand and sits back down, reading the notes quickly and beginning to play. It is a hard piece, and a long one, so he plays the first few notes hesitantly. Not all that badly, if Alexander's rather bias opinion is anything to go by.

Then, Eliza's voice calls from the parlour, clear and gentle.

"Alexander?"

He takes each of his sons' shoulders and brings them with him into the parlour, clinging frantically to the warmth his children have put in his chest. He faces the terrifying chance of being separated from them, he won't dispel this happiness so soon.

Eliza sits, sewing on the sofa in the parlour. Beside her, Angie embroiders a doll's dress. Her fingers are clumsy and her tongue sticks out between her lips in concentration, in much the same manner her brother's does. She looks up and sets aside her project in delight, running towards him.

"Papa!"

He catches her, lifts his daughter and spins her in a wide circle, then pulls her so that she sits on his arm, clutching his lapels. He kisses her forehead once, gently and watches her childish, dark eyes, so like her mother's. He does dote on his only daughter, she is so curious and clever, so like her mother.

"What are you making for Cordelia?"

Cordelia is her doll, a large one they gave her for her fifth birthday. She brings it with her everywhere.

"A skirt, papa, but it is so fiddly!"

He sets her down and sits beside her on the sofa, examining the little piece of cloth. A few sweet, clumsy little flowers have been embroidered onto the scrap of cloth and a pincushion beside Eliza is stuck full of Angie's favourite pins, the pearl-topped ones.

James comes in then, the very youngest. He is being led by Constance by the hand, stumbling slightly in his usual, waddle-some way of walking.

"Papa!"

He runs forward as best he can, stumbles and is caught by Phillip, who is sat on the rug. The older boy brushes him down and sends him again in the direction of his father, smiling.

Alexander scoops his youngest son into his arms and places him on his lap, bouncing his knee up and down playfully. The boy chews on his teething ring, murmuring to himself in that childish lisp of his.

"And what have you done today, James?"

The boy removes his mouth from his finger just long enough to let out a string of near incomprehensible words, Alexander catches garden and Angie.

"Did you play in the garden with Angie?"

Angie nods eagerly, her fingers still over her embroidery again. Alexander gets the impression she will not be much of a seamstress when she is grown, she seems to like having pretty things for her dolls to wear but takes no pleasure in making them herself.

"We saw a butterfly, papa! It was blue!"

Alexander laughs at her delight in such small, seemingly unmemorable things. He wishes he were able to find the same excitement in butterflies, maybe then he would not have been drawn, almost magnetically, to people like John. If he had been more easily pleased, less adamant on getting his own way, he might not be in the situation he is now.

They go to the park after lunch in a rather disorderly procession. Phillip and Angelica hang behind, scuffing their shoes in the dust and chattering away while the younger two scamper, or in James' case, waddle, between Eliza and Alexander's legs.

As he sits on the bench in the park, watching the light play like quicksilver through the leaves and onto the flowerbeds around him, he can almost believe everything will be okay. James falls asleep on Eliza's shoulder half way through the excursion and they had back soon after, Phillip and Angie with their stockings and jackets muddied from climbing the trees that surround the small pond in the very centre of the park.

Eliza brings James to bed upon their return home and Alexander places Alex in the care of Constance. He trusts Phillip and Angelica to be left to themselves in the playroom while he works, they are getting old enough now to read and draw quietly alone, especially Phillip.

His study is lit softly by sunlight filtering through lace curtains. The window has been opened to let the smell of candles and sealing wax drift out on the breeze and the faint chirp of birds permeates the near silence of the house. Alexander feels as though the peace is mocking him.

He sets about reading and studying his and John's correspondence, which he keeps in a hidden compartment of the drawer he keeps his ink and quills in. They are near word for word to the copies Jefferson had shown him. Whoever penned them left out or added no detail, however slight. They, as Jefferson commented, ring true to his own carefully crafted writing style. They are easily recognisable as his. It is damning, oh so desperately damning.

He is reading one, from John to himself circa 1780 when he hears the sharp rap of the knocker on the polished wooden door outside. Footsteps, Constance's no doubt, echo along the hallway and he hears the door click open. There is a brief interlude of silence, the words being spoken are not loud enough for him to hear, and then, Constance's call carries clearly out through the air.

"Mr. Hamilton! A message!"

He slides the letters under his ink tray and removes his glasses before leaving his office and jogging quickly downstairs. Constance awaits at the foot of the stairs, a well dressed black man beside her holds a slip of paper in his hand. He is handsome, little more than a teenager really and clad in clothes Alexander knows suit more an employed servant than a slave, he must be a free man. He quickly removes his hat, bows slightly and holds the parchment out to Hamilton with a charismatic smile, showing very white teeth.

"Sir, a letter from Mr. James Madison, under orders to be handed directly to yourself."

His stomach tightens and a sharp stab of pain sears through his head, he thinks he visibly winced. He takes the parchment, nods in thanks to the man and tips him a coin from his purse in thanks. It is more muscle memory than anything else, he cannot think of more than the contents of the message as the man makes his goodbyes and the door is closed behind him.

He opens it in his study, his hands unsteady and fumbling as he snaps open the wax seal. His eyes scan the message quickly, it is not long, written in Madison's own handwriting.

 _Mr. Hamilton,_

 _As discussed in our previous discussion with Messrs Jefferson and Monroe on Friday evening, we expect your attendance at a second meeting on 18 115th street at seven o'clock, Monday next to negotiate the terms of a private agreement between yourself and the aforementioned parties. No other party, personal or political, is to know the place or subject or our negotiations until Mr. Jefferson, Monroe and myself decide so. The former strongly advises your attendance on the evening of Monday next and hopes you will keep the terms of our previous discussion at the utmost confidentiality._

 _Regards, James Madison._

And so, Hamilton supposes, it begins.


End file.
